Vodin Greybeard
Vodin is an old dwarf warrior well into his fourth century of life. He has spent his time as a mercenary for the past five years, traveling with the outlaw group known as Raven Tail. His time before then is shrouded in mystery, even to the longbeard himself. The only piece he has from his past is the ornate suit of armor that is his constant companion. Despite its beaten and decrepit state, the warplate has never betrayed the dwarf, where so many others have. Vodin's Appearance & Traits Appearance Vodin is an old dwarf. His face is covered in wrinkles, but his strength is that of a much younger dwarf. He stands just over four feet tall. His grey hair is long and tied in a ponytail. His beard stretches down past his waist. He wields axes crafted by his kin and uses shields of various sizes and uses. Ancient Aegis Vodin is constantly wearing an ornate, ancient suit of dwarven warplate. He even sleeps in it. The armor is made of adamantine and has many decorations of gold and inlaid ruby. In the center of the hauberk is a socketed gem of mysterious qualities. It is believed to be one of the fabled Anc Stones, but is certainly a Dragonstone: a gem forged in the belly of a dead dragon. It glows with a faint light and is constantly obscured by Vodin's magnificent beard. It is undoubtedly magical and a few spellcasters have suggested it may be intelligent. Traits Vodin is an incredibly naive dwarf. Despite his many years of life, he only has five years of memory and it makes him awkward and inexperienced with social situations. He is a kind dwarf who would never harm an innocent, but will do what is necessary to survive, even if it means breaking the law. He drinks heavily, but rarely becomes drunk and he smokes a lot of tobacco from his long-necked pipe to relieve stress and to relax. Vodin's History Vodin awoke five years ago in Corvnir Vale, the ancestral home of the Elves. He has no recollection of his many years prior and has spent his time travelling the world in hopes of finding answers to his past and getting by however he can. His only principle is to never harm an innocent. Vodin's Tale By Bradley Lewis Noise. There was noise surrounding him. He was aware of this much. Not the hustle and bustle of daily toil for the folk under the mountains. These sounds seemed more serene, and yet melancholic. They were chanting. It was growing louder. He was unclear of where his captors were, but their voices were growing nearer. Captors? Was he a prisoner? Had he done something to wrong these people? He searched his mind for memories of a time before he was here, wherever here was. The chanting changed. No longer were the voices peaceful. They didn’t even sound mortal. He didn’t know how he knew such a thing, but he was confident he was correct. He pressed further only to be met with a jolt of searing pain that started in his temples and rapidly spread to every fiber of his being. His eyes shot open and he gasped for breath. The light was intense forcing him to blink away the pain. It was as if he hadn’t used his eyes in a lifetime. He struggled to raise his hand to ward away the blinding rays pouring through what seemed like a forest canopy. He wasn’t a prisoner. The lack of bonds testified to that. Was he a guest? Where was he? There was a constant ringing in his ears that drowned out all other sound. That is, if there was any other sound. His eyes started adjusting more. He could see silhouettes of lithe figures. There were 3 by his count, but shades in the background suggested more still. He didn’t know why he was so sure, but he knew to trust his instincts. It’s all he had. The figure in the middle stepped forward, the color of its pale flesh becoming more and more evident. It was a woman. As his vision cleared he saw her for what she was. She was an elf. Her hand reached out to touch his brow. He felt the delicate caress of her hand. It returned that sense to him. It was as if he had forgotten what it was like to ''be.'' His other senses slowly returned to him. The smell of morning dew crept into his nostrils. The sound of birds chirping was accompanied by the serene chanting he first heard in his dream. Dream? Was he asleep? If he was it was unlike any other sleep he had ever experienced. He focused when water was poured over his head. He could taste the purity of the liquid. It ran down his long beard and pooled at his feet. He opened his eyes after a moment. His vision had cleared. The woman leaned down so as to be face-to-face with him. She inspected him thoroughly and it gave him time to look at her more closely. She had golden hair tied in luxurious braids. Her cheeks were narrow and her lips were small and delicate. Her eyes were dark and inquisitive, but also motherly and kind. They were both bewitching and beautiful. “Welcome, master dwarf,” she said. She was speaking to him in his native tongue. Despite it sounding a little forced, her voice was still very soothing. He tried to respond, but all he managed was a hoarse wheeze. He clearly hadn’t had anything to drink in a long time. The lady elf offered him a fine wooden bowl filled with more of the gleaming water. She held it up to his lips as he drank his fill. He gave out a satisfied sigh and looked into his host’s eyes. “Thank you, kind lady,” he said. She nodded and smiled mirthfully as she drew herself up to her full height. She turned on her heel and her teal gown fluttered lightly in the breeze. She walked fluidly towards a group of a couple dozen of her kin waiting and whispering nearby. She spoke to her comrades in the elf tongue. The sounds she made were as mysterious to the dwarf as they were melodic. Her brief address was met with cheers of happiness and applause. She turned slightly and beckoned the dwarf to join them with an outstretched hand. He moved his legs slowly at first testing their limits. He stood up and couldn’t help but turn as he took in his surroundings. He and his elf hosts were in what looked like a sacred spring. The life of the place seemed natural, yet not. The touch of magic was thick in the air. As he turned around he noticed he was lying on a formation of roots that came from the largest tree he had ever seen. Its trunk was wider than a fortress tower. How he knew what size a fortress’ tower was he couldn’t figure out, but the otherworldly feel of the ancient oak quelled further thoughts on the matter. He gazed for a long moment before turning back to see that the lady and two of her kin, a pair of males, were walking towards him. They bowed slightly in greeting. “Greetings, fair elves,” the dwarf managed with a slight bow in return. The lady had to translate for her kin which told him that not many here spoke Dwarvish. Where was he? “Where am I?” he asked without thought. The lady elf stepped forward as she answered, “You are in Corvnir Vale, master dwarf. Where, exactly, I cannot say as this is both a sacred and secret place for my people. However, you are safer here than you could be anywhere else.” Her answer was genuine; of that there was no doubt. Another question came unbidden to his lips, “And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?” “My name is Elendiara and I am the High Spirit Healer of Corvnir,” she replied with a grin, “These two are my most promising pupils, Alyn and Aenar.” Each of them nodded as they heard their name. Alyn was the taller of the two with long flowing amber locks while Aenar had a mane of black pulled tightly into a topknot. They both wore less ornate versions of their master’s gown. “They cared for you while I was in Corvnir,” Elendiara explained. Aenar said something to his master. She turned to him and replied in a scolding voice before addressing the dwarf once more. “Forgive my student, but he is young and impatient,” she began, “I’m sure you must have many questions, but Aenar has been most curious about one thing this whole time.” The dwarf cocked his eyebrow at this. He didn’t know what they could want from him. He was ragged and dirty with nothing of value on him. Before he could ask, Elendiara continued, “He wants very much to know what you were doing in the northern vale, but more importantly who you are, master dwarf.” The dwarf grinned. He thought himself silly for thinking they wanted to be repaid with items. He opened his mouth as if to answer such a simple request, but no words would come. His eyes opened wide with panic and he fell on his knees and grabbed at his head as the searing pain from before came back with a vengeance. His ears rang as he heard the otherworldly chanting from his dream. The elf lady quickly caught him and started chanting spells of healing, but could not control the dwarf as he sobbed and hyperventilated in her hands. Elendiara’s hand glowed white as she finished a cant and she rested it on her patient’s brow. The dwarf calmed significantly, but where there was pain, confusion now reigned. The catatonic dwarf started whispering the same phrase over and over. Elediara leaned in to hear his words. Alyn and Aenar stepped away at their master’s request, but Aenar could not remain silent. “What is he saying, my lady?” he inquired. Elendiara looked up slowly at her students, a tear falling from her eye as she felt the sadness and dismay the dwarf was in the throes of. “This poor soul is truly lost,” she replied, “He keeps asking, ‘Who am I?’” ~*~ Upon his awakening, the nameless dwarf caused quite the stir in Elendiara’s apprentices. Seeking to ease his pain, she cast a sleeping spell on him and allowed him to rest. The next time he woke up he was in a circular, domed room. It was no prison cell. It had tall windows that looked out into the trees surrounding this place. No sooner had he gotten out of bed the doors opened and Aenar walked in. The elf healer bade the dwarf welcome to his family’s estate: House Valefor. He told the dwarf that he would be his father’s guest until they could find out where he was from. Having no other choice, he accepted gratefully, though something seemed off to the grizzled son of the mountain. The next few weeks brought many conversations with Aenar and his father, Orion. Some seemed harmless enough, but each time they probed for information. Sometimes more subtle than others, but it was the information they craved that the dwarf could not give them. Who was he? They gave him small comforts. He was allowed to bathe and walk through the gardens, though never without escort. He was even given a few books in the Dwarven tongue, though they were nothing more than fables and old tales a mother might lull her young beard to sleep with. Despite this, they were the dwarf’s treasures. He read them dozens of times cover to cover. One story roused his heart in ways he had yet to know. It was the Legend of Vodin the Brave. The tale told how Vodin, an ancient dwarf prince, held an underground bridge alone against a horde of bloodthirsty goblins. For three days and three nights the hero fought and cut the head from each fel creature that dared face him with his runic axe. The morning of the fourth day brought forth the largest of their kind, the dreaded Biletooth. He stood thrice the height of the fatigued dwarf prince and twice as wide. He wielded a large, spiked mace and had plates from dwarven armor welded to his skin in a patchwork fashion. No dwarf had ever walked away from a duel with Biletooth, not even the prince’s own father. Biletooth barreled into the stoic prince, who met the charge with his ancestor’s shield. Until midday the dwarf could not be moved, but the last of his energy was swiftly draining from him. The horrendously strong blows of Biletooth were taking their toll. Knowing the titanic duel was reaching its end, Vodin did something the goblin leader didn’t expect. Rather than block his latest overhead swing, the dwarf stepped back and dodged. The mace lodged itself tightly into the stone of the bridge right at the feet of the brave Vodin. He wasted no time. The second the mace hit the stone, Vodin ran up the haft, strapping his shield to take his axe in a two-handed grip. Before Biletooth realized his error, Vodin’s axe had separated his head from his miserable shoulders. The goblins shrunk back at the sight of their leader’s headless corpse slunk of the bridge into the cavernous depths below. When Vodin re-entered his fighting stance and gave a loud warcry, they fled as fast as they could. After reading the legend for over the hundredth time, the dwarf decided to adopt the name of the brave prince of old. He also figured that it would help in his future conversations with the elves of House Valefor. His chosen name brought many more inquiries than he had thought possible. Orion in particular was adamant Vodin confess any memories that he had gleaned. It was this prying that caused the dwarf to become reclusive. For many days, Vodin answered none of the elves’ questions. Instead, he pondered to himself about one of the thoughts he had when he first awoke in the ancient oak. Was he being held captive? Vodin could not answer his own question. He was given all the luxuries a noble would expect, but was only ever alone when behind the doors of his quarters. Despite all his misgivings, he had no reason to leave. He had no memory of a time before Corvnir Vale. One day, after a lunch conversation with Aenar, Vodin heard sounds coming from the west. He didn’t know how he knew, but Vodin knew he heard the sounds of battle. At first he was unsure of what that meant. Who could be fighting here in the elven glade? The elves don’t fight so openly with one another. With that thought came a dawning realization: there were other people nearby. He put down his book and started calmly walking towards the western gardens so as to not cause suspicion. When he reached a place of little visibility, Vodin faked illness to bring his elven escort close. He caught the young elf off guard and elbowed him hard on the head, knocking him out cold. Quietly, he searched the robes and found a small dagger. He stowed it in his boot and dragged the elf’s body into the nearby brush. Free of any prying eyes, Vodin slipped away into the forest. He followed the sounds of fighting only stopping periodically to put his ear to the ground. He knew he must be swift for if he had heard it, so too had the elves. He reached an open area covered by the surrounding trees’ large, upper limbs. They cast the area in perpetual twilight stabbed by the ever-changing slivers of sunlight that pierced the gloom. Vodin had spent too long in the light. It would take longer than he had for his eyesight to adjust. He closed his eyes and reached out with his other senses. He could smell blood, both fresh and old. He heard unnatural gurgles followed by shouts of warriors. He tasted the sick, rotten air. They were close; half of a mile north by his judgment. He moved quickly. Haste was of the utmost importance. The sounds became clear. The language was that of the humans. He was unsure how he knew, but his instinct was proven correct as he spied them from behind a large tree. They were fighting the undead. Creatures from beyond the grave. The thought seemed less frightening than expected. He remembered Orion slightly cringe upon their mention after Vodin had read a fable about them in the deep roads, but now he knew it wasn’t just distaste for certain tales that caused it. They were real. They were alive. He shook his head, dispelling the mind-clouding thoughts. The realization seemed daunting, yet normal for some reason. It was a realization he thought he may have had before. No time. The humans were fighting a desperate struggle with these creatures from the underworld. Vodin took the dagger in a backwards grip. It felt natural in his hand; an instinct he knew he would have to trust if he were to survive this engagement. He stepped out from behind the tree and charged towards the nearest human. He had a bow slung over his back, but was wielding a tree branch as a makeshift club. The lad was not graceful in close quarters. Vodin would have to help. The man pushed away the nearest shambling creature before Vodin ran past him. He leapt on the creature and stabbed it in the head. He looked back at the human, noticing the confusion on his face. He nodded and darted off towards the next fel being. The combat ended shortly afterwards. The humans had lost quite a few to the undead, but quite a few among them knew how to handle a weapon. Vodin smiled to himself to see the fight won. He turned on his heel to be met with the face of a large, square-jawed man. He noticed the man had the beginnings of a beard, as if he hadn’t shaved in a few weeks. His breath was also quite displeasing. The man stood to his full height, standing four heads above Vodin and the dwarf could tell that this was a half-orc. He wore half-plate armor and hefted an enormous greatsword onto his shoulder. He snorted and spit off to the side. He was not a well-mannered creature. The crowd started gathering. There were 11 in all; four of them were female. He noticed a couple half-breeds among the rabble. One man stepped forward, resting a hand on the giant barbarian’s arm. He seemed to be the leader. He wore many shades of brown. His almost black leather armor covered him from neck to toe and he wore pouches of varying sizes and uses. He wore a red hued coat that hung down to his knees and seemed to be able to hide many small treasures. It was his crossbow that Vodin noticed most as it was pointed squarely at his head. He couldn’t help but notice the remarkable craftsmanship of the weapon; it was made by his kin. The brown-haired man demanded to know why a dwarf was in the Corvnir Vale. Vodin sighed as he was very tired of that same question. There was a shout of disbelief from behind the crowd that tore everyone’s attention away from Vodin for a moment. It was an older man with greying hair. His face was grizzled and scarred. He wore a suit of chainmail that bore the Imperial crest and wielded a standard-issue halberd. The man looked astonished. His eyes and mouth were agape as he slowly strode towards Vodin using his halberd as a crutch. He had been wounded in the melee. Vodin made to help the injured soldier, but was stopped by the man in front of him. He gave the inhumane bastard a cold look. The soldier limped the rest of the distance. To the amazement of the rest of the group, he knelt before Vodin as if paying respect to the lord of a house. The son of the mountain was visibly taken aback. The leather-clad alpha male glanced down briefly at his injured comrade and shouted a name. One of the females hurried forward. She wore a robe that looked as if it was once white, but was caked in grit from many weeks use. The rest of the group moved closer, each one still clutching their weapon. The woman knelt beside the soldier and started healing him with light from her hands. Upon closer inspection, Vodin noticed that she was blind. Again, the captain demanded to know Vodin’s purpose. Before he could explain himself, the soldier spoke. It was forced, but clear enough to make out. “We thought you dead, my lord.” Both Vodin and the captain looked at the soldier with utter confusion plastered across their faces. Before either could inquire as to the meaning of the soldier’s words, the healer woman perked up as if she heard something. Not a second later, the air was filled with arrow shafts. The woman took two to the torso and her body dropped to the mossy dirt. The group panicked as they started to see their comrades fall. Vodin saw two of the men felled before the soldier dove on top of him, causing him to hit his head on an upturned stone. His vision swam and he passed out. Vodin awoke to the sound of an elf horn in the distance. He looked around and saw the five that remained of the group of humans tied up and surrounded by heavily armed elves. The sigil they bore was unfamiliar to him, so he decided to stay still instead of become a pin cushion. He tilted his head slowly to either side to take in his surroundings. Upon looking to his right, he saw a corpse punctured by over a dozen arrows. It was the soldier. The man who saved him. The man who knew him. He could not mask his outrage and snorted his displeasure without thinking. He stood up quickly, knowing he had been noticed, but was met with three elf bowmen ready to take his life. The horn blasted again, but this time it was much closer. He heard a familiar voice shouting in the elven tongue. Vodin’s assailants eased back, though each of them looked confused. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the eyes of Aenar. The elf’s face showed no emotion and the elf walked past fluidly. Vodin had never seen the elf in his wargear and was thoroughly impressed. He looked regal in his lethality. Aenar approached an elf of similar bearing, though clearly of a different house. Instead of the phoenix sigil of House Valefor, this elf’s armor bore the crest of a large tree with deep roots. It looked familiar to Vodin somehow, though he could not remember ever seeing it. As the two noble elves greeted each other and conversated in Sylvan, Vodin was surrounded by a host of elf warriors from his hosts’ house. They stood before him like guards. He sighed a breath of relief, as his life was not in danger. At least, for the moment. Vodin strained to listen in on Aenar’s conversation. While he didn’t speak the elven language, he could make out a few words. He discovered that the other elves belonged to House Xanthir and the noble present was called Belaenar. He looked utterly outraged. The conversation turned into a full-fledged argument and Aenar strode back towards Vodin. He picked up the stone the dwarf had knocked his head on and brushed it off revealing a Sylvan rune. It was a waystone marking the border of House Valefor’s territory. Upon proffering the stone to Belaenar, the matter was settled. As the Xanthir noble turned to leave, Vodin could hear curses muttered under his breath bringing a sly grin to his lips. On Aenar’s command, his host surrounded the humans and forced them to their feet. They girded them back towards the estate and Aenar walked beside Vodin drawing suspicious looks from the mercenaries. Vodin paid them no heed. It was Aenar’s eerie silence that made him uneasy. Upon returning to his room, Vodin’s wounds were tended to and he was given water with which to bathe. However, when the servants left, the door was locked behind him. The elves did not want him to leave. A week passed before anyone came to visit him, and it was long after dark. Aenar strode through the doors, dismissing the guards to a safe distance. Despite this, he spoke in hushed tones and his words made little sense. He spoke of how he used to use one of the windows of Vodin’s room to play in the treetops as a child. He spoke of a small dock along the river that flowed a few miles south of the estate. Any attempt to interrupt was swiftly dispelled by more nonsense. He spoke of the mercenaries that were captured mentioning knowing Vodin’s true identity. He spouted random directions as if solving a maze in his head. He even fluffed Vodin’s pillows as he spoke of an old, broken cart full of hay that concealed treasures. After that, Aenar made for the door. He only turned to wish the dwarf luck and then passed through the portal, locking the chamber behind him. Vodin was most perplexed by the demeanor of the elf. He stayed awake for hours pondering his words. He grew fatigued as the first light of the sun began to peer through the forest canopy and lay his head down on his bed. He felt something hard. He lifted his pillow to find a key. It looked much too large to fit the lock on his door, but perhaps that of a dungeon cell. The words began to make more sense. Vodin quickly formulated a plan, repeating the words of the elf over and over in his head. He fell asleep shortly after knowing he would need to be fully rested for what he was about to attempt. The next night, two hours after sundown, Vodin enacted his plan. After checking the guards were a safe distance from the door, he leapt out of his window and into the trees. The branches were sturdy and many of them overlapped with those of adjacent trees. Vodin moved quietly along the branches towards the southern gate, reciting Aenar’s words in his head. After a few moments, he spied the portal that led to the dungeons. It was under constant guard. He thought for a moment before he heard an elf shout. It was Aenar. He was dressed for war. He summoned the guards from the dungeons to him and headed off towards Vodin’s chamber. This couldn’t have been chance. The elf was assisting him. Somehow, someday, Vodin would have to repay the favor. Vodin acted quickly. He climbed down to the lowest branches and leapt to the ground, rolling to break his fall. He sprinted into the dungeon portal and stopped for a moment. Aenar’s random directions came to mind as his eyesight adjusted to the gloom. He followed them: right, right, left, right, left, left, right. He ended up in the cell block where mercenaries were being held. The first to notice him was the leader. He was wearing dirty rags suited for a prisoner, as were his four companions: the half-orc brute, a dark-skinned woman, a curly-haired ginger lad, and an older tan-skinned man who was praying. The ebon-haired captain quietly alerted his comrades. He was forced to kick the half-orc to shut him up when the barbarian started to make surprised noises. Vodin wasted no time. He unlocked each cell and bade them to follow him out. Remembering Aenar’s second series of directions, they came out at the southern edge of the estate. They all hid in the nearby bushes, the captain whispering something about not having weapons. Vodin looked around him and spied an old cart overflowing with hay. It was the only piece of the puzzle yet to fit. He gestured to the rest to follow him. Upon reaching the cart, he started to sift through the hay. There were weapons and armor of various sizes. The mercenaries became pleased to find their items again, but one piece caught everybody’s eye. It was a magnificent suit of dwarven plate mail. It had inlaid ruby in various places and embossed dragons. There was a foggy, white jewel in the center of the chestplate. Despite it looking in need of repair, the suit was the single most beautiful thing Vodin had ever laid eyes on. There were elves shouting in the distance. The others helped Vodin into the ancient warplate as fast as they could. He noticed the warmth that crept into his being as each piece was fastened. The leader found a couple extra pieces of gear; a hatchet and a buckler. He tossed them to the dwarf and asked, “Which way?” Vodin told them to head south towards the river and they all headed that way with great speed. They stopped once after hearing a horn blast to the north. The dark-skinned woman, who now wore cured leather armor, dropped to the earth and listened. From what she could surmise, the elves were mounted, but moving in the opposite direction. The others chimed that luck was on their side, but Vodin knew better. Aenar was putting everything on the line to save the dwarf, but he could not figure out why. They kept moving, eventually coming to a wide river. Upon further search, they found a dock with a large rowboat tied to it. The group wasted no time in climbing aboard, the black-haired leaded seeming to know his way around a boat. They let the current carry them until first light and then started rowing. They followed the river southwest and from there, the adventures of Raven Tail began. ~*~ Vodin was in Corvnir for eight months before his escape with the remaining members of Raven Tail. It was a month after that when the crew stole the Pride of the Emperor and started on their adventures at sea. The beginning was hard. Vodin and Corvus spoke many times, but could never trust one another completely. It was mostly because neither of them would tell the other of their past and left suspicions aplenty. After nearly a year of travel and nearly a dozen jobs, they encountered trouble in Fontu. It was supposed to be an easy smuggling job. Dock, move the cargo from the center of the city, and get out. The employer was of the disreputable sort, a point Vodin made to Corvus multiple times. Little did they know how true it was. The same man told the local citizen militia about how some goods were being stolen and it would be most beneficial with the local aristocracy if they were to be the ones that apprehended the perpetrators. Half-way back to the ship, they were attacked. Beset on all sides, a great many deckhands lost their lives. Vodin defended himself as he felt was right, but after easily ending the first “soldier” to come at him, he realized these were regular citizens and not the corrupt guardsmen. Vodin fell into a deep rage then, but internalized it until the task at hand was complete. He gathered all those around him into a makeshift phalanx and pushed forward. He ordered to use non-lethal blows and knocked two dozen men unconscious on his way to the Shadow. With all aboard as they could manage, Raven Tail set out under a hail of fire. When they were a safe distance away and after the wounded had been treated, Vodin launched himself at Corvus raining down blow after blow with his fist. The fight was short, but brutal and had both men wanting blood. Mara put a stop to it. Vodin demanded Corvus be held accountable for the innocents they had to kill and told him he wanted off the ship once the job was completed in Peluma. Silence filled the decks on the journey to Peluma. All were working around the clock since so many hands had been lost. When they reached Peluma and entered the chambers of their employer, Vodin strode forwards and planted his axe in the wretch’s desk, nearly bisecting it. Corvus and the rest followed suit and bore their arms, Jan’nok being particularly intimidating as he picked a man up by the throat and threw him into an ornate globe. Corvus demanded to be paid double, or violence would ensue. The man was a snake, but very much scared by their impressive show of force. He paid them all their earnings and knew never to mess with Raven Tail again. As he gave Vodin his earnings, Corvus told him, “I’m sorry about what happened in Fontu. Truly, I am. Things got their way of going south when you are most desperate and I am sorry you were involved. I wish you better fortune during your travels.” Vodin nodded and smiled at this giving his own, short apology. The men parted ways as friends. Vodin then searched the city for work or a place to stay. He ventured into a library after a week of searching. It was here he met the man known as Kar. Kar was a gentle, older man who wore simple robes. He was a scholar and had been curator of the library for almost a decade. Upon seeing Vodin in his domain, Kar was very interested in showing the dwarf his many dwarven texts. Vodin came back day after day to read all of Kar’s books. Two months passed and Kar invited Vodin to stay in the building’s attic if he helped out in the library. He gratefully accepted Kar’s offer and read to his heart’s content in all of his spare time. The entire dwarven section was quickly absorbed by Vodin. He learned much of the clans of Kazan and the society therein. He learned of the Opal War that had ravaged the world in the past centuries. The knowledge he took in seemed to be reminders. He didn’t know how or when he learned of such things, but he knew regardless. He read of The Scorching, but this information was truly new to him despite it having happened nearly twelve years prior. It was curious that so much was recorded, but nothing was known. There was one tome he treasured over all others and read more than a hundred times. It had no title, but the words written spoke of Torvak. It seemed to be nothing more than a journal of some merchant who traveled there to trade with masons, but to Vodin it was a bible. The more he read, the more he could see the city in his mind’s eye. He could only hang on to glimpses, but the more he gleaned, the more he knew he had been to Torvak. Unfortunately, no one had heard from Torvak in many years. For five months, Vodin poured through text after text looking for anything that might lead to the most important question he had: Who was he? After many weeks of frustration, he found an old legend written on a scroll. It claimed to be a copy of a stone-carved inscription found in Torvak. It told of a skilled craftsman who made gems of untold power: the Anc Stones. It was written in riddles, but Vodin knew that these stones held the knowledge of any clan who bore them so the clan’s power would be assured. It was one of those things he was just sure of. His research from that point forward was very specific. He asked Kar if he had any other works that referred to the Anc Stones and was pointed to a text with a picture in it. It was a mere ink sketch, but even this medium could show the magnificence of such a jewel. Kar was curious as to Vodin’s interest in such a legend. Believing he could trust the librarian, Vodin showed him the foggy jewel socketed in his chestplate. It bore the same cut as the Anc Stone in the picture, but seemed to be a shadow of its former glory. Still, there was no disguising that it was indeed a mythical Anc Stone. Perhaps it was because of the kindness of the man, or maybe it was Vodin’s undivided attention to his research, but Kar was not what he seemed. He was no run-of-the-mill librarian, but a mole for one of the many factions of the Seven Daggers. He had been making reports regularly about “The Dwarf Lord”, but upon learning of the true treasure of the armor Vodin wore, Kar decided to take matters in his own hands. He was going to steal the armor and sell it for millions on the black market. Kar bided his time. He knew the dwarf would never take the armor off unless he bathed, and even then he would take the armor off in the same room. He had a plan, however. After a few weeks, he prepared Vodin’s bath, but this time with a strong sleeping agent mixed in. When Vodin sat in the tub for long enough, he drifted off into a deep sleep. Kar took this chance to slip in and take the armor. The task proved more difficult than he’d expected. What should have weighed no more than 50 pounds felt like it weighed more than six times that. The Anc Stone glowed faintly as the thief tried to drag the armor away. It seemed unwilling to part with Vodin. Such thoughts were absurd. Jewels couldn’t think. Even so, the armor was heavier than expected, and took a lot longer to get out into the wheelbarrow than anticipated. It took much too long. Additionally, Kar was forced to rest before he wheeled the metal suit to the nearest smuggler ship. Vodin woke up before Kar had left the library. At first he was groggy, but upon realizing his armor was missing, he burst into action. He vaulted out of the tub, wrapped a towel around himself and ran to find Kar. Surely he saw who took it. Indeed he had. Vodin yelled to him when he saw him. He immediately noticed the metal boots sticking out from under some furs in the cart the librarian was preparing. There were no words, just fury. Vodin launched himself at the thief and beat him senseless. The man had betrayed him, but Vodin stopped himself short of ending the pathetic wretch’s life. He looked around and saw that some people had noticed the librarian’s plight. Vodin knew it wouldn’t be long before the guards were called. He donned his armor quickly and ran to the attic to gather his things. He pulled his hood up last and heard shouts coming from outside the library. Kar was awake and lying to the guards in a boisterous tone about a dwarf ruffian. He moved quickly. There was too much noise around for him to worry about his armor making any sound. He headed for the docks, pausing to hide when needed, but his time with Raven Tail had taught him how to hide from the city watch. He was a hundred yards from the docks when he spied a raven perched on a small cottage nearby. He looked at it for a long while, and it looked right back. It then flew off towards the beach further east along the shore. It was there he spied part of a black rowboat behind a large boulder. As he ran for it, he noticed the Raven perched on a man’s arm standing in front of the boat. It was Captain Corvus. Never had Vodin been happier to see the mercenary. The man made witty remarks about how Vodin seemed to be a wanted man, but shut up when the sounds of guard bells came from nearby. They rowed away from the shore into the nearby fog. When safe, Vodin inquired as to why Corvus had returned after so long. “We came for work,” replied Corvus, “but we heard strange tell of a ‘dwarf lord’ in a library that some of our employers' friends were only too keen on swindlin’. I had a hunch you were their man and when I heard the guards rush off in that general direction, I thought I’d pay you a visit.” Vodin smiled at Corvus’ jovial nature and realized he could trust the man completely. He was grateful to have made such a great friend. From that point on, Vodin sailed with Raven Tail and worked with them. Vodin confided in Corvus about his lack of memories and asked to help him find someone who knows about the Anc Stones. Corvus promised his help to the dwarf and their adventures brought answers that only asked more questions. Two and a half years passed. It had been nearly 5 years since Vodin had awoken in the spirit glade. He was talking privately with Corvus about the latest information, when Matthias walked in. He overheard their conversation and knew of those who might be able to answer any and all of Vodin’s questions. Corvus spat when he learned they were in Corinth, the heart of the Thyran Empire. Vodin was frantic. He had to seek out this lead, no matter where it would take him. Corvus told him he would not take his ship anywhere within a hundred leagues of that city, but would get him close enough and give him enough supplies to complete his journey. It was with a heavy heart that Vodin left Raven Tail. This time, he knew he would be welcomed back at a moment’s notice. “Look for my sign next you find yourself in peril. I might just be your big damn hero.” Corvus’ last words to him warmed his heart. The next time he saw the man he would have answers to give him. This he vowed. He was dropped off on a beach nearby a road that connected with the Harvest Road a few miles inland. Vodin waved at the Shadow as it sailed into the night, pulled his cloak over his armor, and took his first step towards Corinth. Stone Memories Vodin's amnesia is believed to come from the magical gem socketed into the heart of his armor. Whether it was the will of the item itself or that of an outside force is still unknown, but from time to time the old dwarf will have pieces of his former life return to him. The following are authored by Ryan Kristoff. They are written from Vodin's perspective. The Sky Burned The world fell around you. It was as if the world itself was collapsing, pieces of the great spires’ black stone showering the battle lines. You lay on your back, blood soaking your beard, the only thing you could think of was Darnda; she always made you so proud. Your memory is like a whirlpool, slowly sucking down those thoughts that tried to swim hardest to the surface. The image of your fierce young daughter slowly crept in like the cooling sensation of relief. Thank the stone she was still in Torvak. The lines were broken, the humans defeated, the dead everywhere. The terrible screeching from the sky, that madness, that pain, how horrible it must be for a god to die. You roll and clutch your axe, your shield arm broken; you will not die on the ground. You see the old faces, those veterans who followed you from the halls to fight the mad wizards. Some circled you, shouting, fending off nameless twisted spawn. Some lay slack jawed with tired faces in their own blood. You could see the breach in the great tower, you could see that man. The man you thought could end this. He stood double your height, his beard white his armor sundered, his eyes mad with what he had seen. Hagar Ironheart. Hagar is weaponless holding a person with a long black tail. The warrior priest looks to the sky and cries, begs for salvation, his calls are desperate, pathetic even. You’ve never seen this man, who had always seemed a force of nature, so desolate. Your eyes follow the limp form of the bloodied, broken person, finally meeting his eyes. They open. This seems the most important moment of your life. He mouths a word in dwarven. Forgive… Horror You can taste the ash in the air; your vision focuses on the battle group ahead of you. Your shield brothers form up into ranks, needing only your most basic instructions. As you crest the hill, you see more of them: the undead. This is not a war. This is a nightmare. Many of the great spires lay collapsed and enshrouded in blue flame. Hordes of abominations tear at the bases of the great sorcerous fortresses. Only the Pike, a great black pinnacle, stands defiantly among the carnage. You can feel the magic in the air as you approach, your armor soaking it in, glowing with a blue sheen. The throng marches in support of the Thyran Conscripts, the army is made up of southerners, and the cowards and weak have long since died on the march. The tattered red banners reads: “Shields of the Weak, Men of the Fairlands.” The human’s faces are gaunt and their lines are far too disordered for your taste. The Throng moving in unison, slow and steady under the metered bursts of horn blasts. You focus on your objective: move in from the northwest, sweeping a path for the retreat. Your thoughts focus on which formations you can best utilize in coordination with the humans, you know that you will have to secure the base of the Pike for the vanguards retreat. You grumble out commands to Toric, having long since lost your taste for shouting the battle order. The red bearded dwarf booms, clamoring his mace and shield after every order. The throng separated into 25 blocks of men, spreading out and mixing with the human irregulars: the rampart formation. As enemies broke through the loose human skirmish line, the blocks of dwarves could crush larger groups together between shield walls. The only risk you saw is that the dwarves would be weaker as a full fighting force and you would only have a small group of shield brothers to protect you while you maintained command. The human commander approached, as their skirmish lines intermingled with the dwarven formation. He was tall, with dark brown skin and a tan southern complexion. You could see an insignia he wore denoting him as a Major. “Aye…….. (A horrible pain shoots through you as he says a name)……. How do you want to run this?” The man had a great sword sheathed on his back, and another southern looking lad in tow, a captain by the looks of him. You clear your throat, the ash of this place made your lungs itchier than 5 year old mountain herb. “Oldrik, is it?” “Aye, sir, of the Southwestern Fairland Irregulars.” The human had dark circles under his eyes; he looked as if he hadn’t slept in years. You crack your neck, sighing. “Shame about Barrington. Good man he was, capable General.” Oldrik stares through you, as if trying to read the subtext of your words. “Indeed, very capable, Alas we have lost many of our officers on this march, and…. many men.” The human was strangely ethereal, he was clearly with you, but he seemed distant and unfocused. “If I thought there was a better way, I would call this march a fools’ folly.” You speak in tired, determined, and frustrated grumbles. These humans might be leading you and your kin to their deaths. You can see the Vanguard begin to clash with the undead, you steel yourself. Oldrik looks to you. “Life is a fool’s folly. I will never return from this moment, master dwarf. I will never return from this…horror.” The human’s strange macabre ramblings surprise you, even among this hopeless landscape. “Ye up to this, lad? It seems you haven’t slept in weeks.” Oldrik looks to the battle ahead and unsheathes his sword. “My men will funnel them into your lines, we shall move like a wave against the levy, crashing forward and receding in turn.” He takes a long moment and meets your eyes. Those eyes, so pained, so tortured. “I know that it sounds strange Commander, but, I have seen this before, in my dreams….” He stops for a moment and his brow furrows. “The horror is coming.” You begin to jog with your battle group in tow. The shields go up and you can see some of the scattered undead trying to regroup and flank the Vanguard. Major Vranastin steels himself, and a snarl appears on his face. “Dwarf! Whatever happens do not forget him! When all others reel at the sight of it, you MUST remember! He is the mind behind this…. He is a true believer…. and he shall engulf us in the flames of fate.” Just as your shield wall collides with a rotting Minotaur, you see it, and despite all of what you were told…. you feel a terrible fear. The largest Wyrm you have ever seen made of polished grey bone, his gullet filling with flame. Instead of expelling it onto the crowd, it gathers in his skull and burns a hole into your mind.